Labor of Love
Christmas in Coral Ridge is a time to gather. It is a time to see the B-list friends who aren’t important enough for us to see regularly and the relatives who, except for Christmas, we would see only at weddings and funerals. Is it any wonder that these holiday gatherings are regarded with major reservations?
Christmas in our family was much easier when my mother was still able to cook. Growing up, I thought my mother was the world’s best cook, but in retrospect, she was a very 1960’s kind of cook: Every meal began with a can of Campbell’s cream of something soup and she thought Jell-O was a vegetable. Still, Mom was a reliable cook and we never went hungry. I had the expectation that if Mom stopped cooking Christmas dinner that my two sisters would tie on an apron, preheat the oven and get out the Campbell’s soup.
As it turns out, both sisters are as bad cooks as you can legally be. My middle sister is terrified of food-borne pathogens. Wielding a meat thermometer like a weapon, she cooks all meat to an internal temperature of 220, with the conviction that a microbe does not stand a chance in an environment that can boil water.
My older sister’s particular issue is that she declares the food is ready when she says it is ready. The upshot is that if the wine is poured and the candles are lit, by God, ready or not she is serving dinner. Carpaccio of pork and mashed potatoes that must be cut with a knife are the stuff of murky family legends that are discussed in whispers.
My older brother is the product of a different generation; he discovered, when he was widowed very young, that he also lacks the cooking gene. His idea of meal planning involves a drive-thru and a corkscrew, and I’m not sure he’s any the worse for it.
And so it came to pass that Christmas dinner became the responsibility of my younger brother. An amateur cook of staggering talent, he had the good sense to marry a woman who excels at desserts, so holiday meals at his house were always worth the trip to Lake Worth. Unfortunately, thanks to three home wreckers named Frances, Jeanne and Wilma he relocated to Ocala where his wife’s family now gets to enjoy the fruits of his labor.
And thus his labor became my labor. Now I’ve never bought into that whole “cooking is a labor of love” mentality, but Christmas is a time to gather and if you’re going to gather you may as well eat, so Christmas dinner is now my responsibility. This year I’m going to put a decidedly Coral Ridge spin on the holiday meal. Like my neighbors I am approaching Christmas dinner with reservations, and this year those reservations include a Honey Baked Ham with all the fixings; if anyone wants a green vegetable, I’ll make some Jell-O.
Labor of Love
Christmas in Coral Ridge is a time to gather. It is a time to see the B-list friends who aren’t important enough for us to see regularly and the relatives who, except for Christmas, we would see only at weddings and funerals. Is it any wonder that these holiday gatherings are regarded with major reservations?
Christmas in our family was much easier when my mother was still able to cook. Growing up, I thought my mother was the world’s best cook, but in retrospect, she was a very 1960’s kind of cook: Every meal began with a can of Campbell’s cream of something soup and she thought Jell-O was a vegetable. Still, Mom was a reliable cook and we never went hungry. I had the expectation that if Mom stopped cooking Christmas dinner that my two sisters would tie on an apron, preheat the oven and get out the Campbell’s soup.
As it turns out, both sisters are as bad cooks as you can legally be. My middle sister is terrified of food-borne pathogens. Wielding a meat thermometer like a weapon, she cooks all meat to an internal temperature of 220, with the conviction that a microbe does not stand a chance in an environment that can boil water.
My older sister’s particular issue is that she declares the food is ready when she says it is ready. The upshot is that if the wine is poured and the candles are lit, by God, ready or not she is serving dinner. Carpaccio of pork and mashed potatoes that must be cut with a knife are the stuff of murky family legends that are discussed in whispers.
My older brother is the product of a different generation; he discovered, when he was widowed very young, that he also lacks the cooking gene. His idea of meal planning involves a drive-thru and a corkscrew, and I’m not sure he’s any the worse for it.
And so it came to pass that Christmas dinner became the responsibility of my younger brother. An amateur cook of staggering talent, he had the good sense to marry a woman who excels at desserts, so holiday meals at his house were always worth the trip to Lake Worth. Unfortunately, thanks to three home wreckers named Frances, Jeanne and Wilma he relocated to Ocala where his wife’s family now gets to enjoy the fruits of his labor.
And thus his labor became my labor. Now I’ve never bought into that whole “cooking is a labor of love” mentality, but Christmas is a time to gather and if you’re going to gather you may as well eat, so Christmas dinner is now my responsibility. This year I’m going to put a decidedly Coral Ridge spin on the holiday meal. Like my neighbors I am approaching Christmas dinner with reservations, and this year those reservations include a Honey Baked Ham with all the fixings; if anyone wants a green vegetable, I’ll make some Jell-O.